


Chaff Before the Whirlwind

by Lise



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Interrogation, Lucifer's Cage, Torture, nobody's happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an old dream. (And then it isn't.) Mirror fic of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/395745">A Sinner in the Hands of an Angry God.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaff Before the Whirlwind

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Sinner In the Hands of an Angry God](https://archiveofourown.org/works/395745) by [Lise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise). 



It was an old dream. Older than Hell, even, though he (Lucifer) had of course found ways to twist it and adapt it in new and eternally inventive ways. One thing the devil didn’t lack in was creativity. (Sam tried not to follow that line down too far.)

So, an old dream, and a familiar one: waking up in a dark room with Dean looking at him with an expression that was hard and dark and _ugly,_ tapping the flat of a knife against his leg. _I’ve finally worked it out,_ his expression said. _How bad you really are. How deep your evil runs. I can’t let it slide anymore, Sam. I can’t._

This one, he could almost relax into. He knew how it went. Knew how it ended. The unknowns were always the worst. (Shelter in routine. Things got a lot worse after _they_ figured that out. No, stop.)

“You’re not Sam,” Dean said, in the voice Sam was accustomed (by now) to being on the receiving end of, if only in (Hell) dreams. “You think I’m stupid, huh? I can tell the difference.”

Reflex was always to plead. _No, Dean, it’s me, it’s really me_ and Dean’s expression would twist and he would say _yeah, that’s the problem isn’t it? That you’re you and you’re not who I thought you were._

He looked up at Dean and waited. Dean twitched, like he was seeing something he didn’t want to.

“Don’t try to pull that on me,” Dean snarled. “I’ve known for days, all right? And I’m done.”

_I’m done._ He’d heard that one before, too. Sometimes it simply preceded Dean leaving. Other times something else. Once, pinned against the wall with his insides shredding, he’d called _Dean!_ and his brother had lowered his gun and said that. _I’m done._

_I’m sorry,_ he thought, uselessly. _I’m sorry I wasn’t ever-_

“There’s only one thing I want to hear from you,” Dean said, voice dropping an octave, “And that’s what you did with my brother. Cause you’re not Sam.” He reached out, then, and pulled down the gag. “ _So tell me where he is._ ”

Sam blinked. New. That was new. A strange change to make. “It’s me, Dean,” Sam said, because it was reflex and if that changed – maybe something else would, maybe this was one of those times (precious, rare) that Dean would understand and cut him loose and say _it’s okay, Sammy, it’s-_

No, that was never Dean. Lucifer. Lucifer liked that one. Would wait until Sam was almost crying with relief, sometimes until Sam pressed the amulet into Dean’s hands and Dean said _Thank god, Sammy, thank god you kept it_ before changing back, _did you really think, Sam?_

Distracted, it took Sam a moment to notice that there was a knife in his shoulder. Dean’s teeth were bared, and something in Sam’s brain murmured _wrong answer, I guess_ just a little too calmly even before he screamed ( _it’s okay to scream, it’s fine, it’s good, whatever helps, Sam, whatever helps_ ).

And that was when it fell apart.

_It feels different, doesn’t it?_ Dean said, fingers digging into his wounded palm. _Pain is different here_ and Sam knew pain so well, so so well and he knew this and it wasn’t dream-pain or Hell-pain or hallucination-pain.

Real.

Everything splintered and fell inward. He could feel every twitch of the knife in his shoulder, every minute twist, a howling chorus of _this is real, Sam, this is real this is real-_

_Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this,_ Dean asked, cocking the gun against Sam’s forehead. _Years, Sam. Fucking years._

At least Lucifer wasn’t watching, Sam thought desperately. He didn’t think he could deal with that. “Answer me,” Dean snarled again, leaning in close. “What the _fuck_ did you do with my brother?”

Wait. What?

* * *

Something had gone wrong.

(It was hard to think straight. His shoulder _really_ hurt, he’d felt the nausea-inducing grind of knife against bone as Dean had yanked it out and Sam knew pain but it never really got any easier to think through it, not really.)

It wasn’t him, though. Dean wasn’t…wasn’t trying to hurt him. (He wasn’t. Sam kept reminding himself of that, because it was easy to forget, but it was important.) Dean thought he was something else, something pretending to be him, and the sad thing was how easily it could have been true.

So it wasn’t like Sam blamed him, or anything.

(He had never really appreciated how _good_ Dean was at causing pain. There was a detached, sick part of him that was almost impressed. Sam tried to pretend it wasn’t there.)

Something had gotten to Dean. Messed with his head. It had…they’d been hunting something. Sam was trying to focus on what it was while still –“Dean, it’s me, it’s me” – responding to his brother’s questions (if not with the answers he wanted) but it was-

Sam thought he might have passed out at some point. Dean was pacing back and forth when he opened his eyes, talking on the phone. To Bobby? Probably. Was this a hunt? Was there something – _do monsters know that they’re monsters?_ He wondered dizzily, because he’d never known, of course, before they told him, and maybe he wasn’t Sam and he wouldn’t know, Dean would know that kind of thing, he always had.

(No. You’re. You. Focus, Sam, _focus._ )

What had they been hunting? Something. Maybe something was affecting Dean, making him think – maybe this was a nightmare. Maybe this was Hell. No. Didn’t feel right. Unless something had changed, unless-

_Focus._

Dean was coming back, and Sam was only half out of his bonds. He froze, looking hopefully up at Dean (Bobby, did you say) but Dean’s expression just tightened, and for a second Sam was sure he was looking Death in the eye. (Seen it often enough, after all. Very very familiar.)

It really hurt to have someone break your fingers one at a time. Really. Sam thought he’d forgotten.

* * *

“Dean,” Sam tried saying, “I need you to think-”

Dean was meticulous. Never cut too deep or too fast or too hard though Sam could see it in his face how much he wanted to. The desperation and anger rising like a tide. It was up to him to work this out. Up to him. Sam’s head didn’t want to work right. He kept thinking _Dean help me Dean Dean_ like an idiot, he should have known by now that Dean couldn’t save him from (anything) everything-

Should have known that better than anything.

“Talk to Bobby, ask him,” Sam tried.

Dean drove a bronze knife through his leg just above the knee.

For a few seconds, it was just – _Dean, it’s me, it’s Sam, please, stop, please_ – reflex. Never helped to beg. Never had, never will, but he still-

Dean was gone and it was Lucifer, cradling his head between two cool palms. “Easy,” he said. “Easy. I can take you further than this. You think you can’t take any more, Sam. I’m here to prove you wrong. Just relax. Just.”

Lucifer was gone. Dean was back, holding a glass of water to his lips and Sam swallowed it eagerly. It tasted like blood but that wasn’t so bad, it was still water, and maybe Dean’d worked it out, whatever it was wore off, whatever-

“Just tell me,” Dean said, and he sounded so _tired_ that Sam almost wished he could just say, could end this and tell Dean what he wants to hear. “Tell me where my brother is.”

_Right here,_ Sam wanted to say, but that wouldn’t get him anywhere, and he could see the bronze knife on Dean’s knee, and his entire body hurthurthurt, so he said, “I don’t know,” instead. Dean blinked at him.

“You don’t know,” he echoed, back. Sam swallowed. That tasted like blood too. He wished there was more water.

“I don’t,” Sam said again. “What did…what did you come here to hunt?” Almost said _we,_ but that’d just piss Dean off, sound like presumption, Dean hated him enough already, _don’t make it worse, he’ll never survive killing you once he realizes._

“Nothing,” Dean said, and that wasn’t right, Sam knew it, but he couldn’t remember through the pain and the exhaustion sinking claws deep deep into him (Lucifer used to make them meet in the middle, ask Sam to say when they were touching, _pay attention-_ )

_Focus._

“Are you sure?” He asked, trying to search his own memory, hunted through muddled mess that was his brain and it was there somewhere, he was sure, just a couple minutes away – something making people kill the people closest to them, something-

_Dean I need you to help me, I need you to work this out, talk to Bobby-_

The phone rang, and Dean answered it, moved a little way off. Sam hoped desperately that Bobby worked it out in time. He wasn't sure how much longer he could last. His chin dropped to his chest and he lost a few minutes because he didn’t remember seeing Dean come back, but he was there, saying, “All right, let’s try this again,” grim and determined. Unstoppable.

Dean was meticulous.

He could, Sam knew (from experience, because he’s done this before, because he’s seen it done before) do this for hours.

Which just meant Sam had hours to work this out. Right. Except his thoughts were getting blurrier by the minute and he just wanted this to stop. Just wanted. _Dean help me please Dean please._

* * *

You can’t die in Hell.

Lucifer liked to let him do it anyway.

Liked to let him get that close to release and then yank him away from it, _nope, sorry, nowhere else to go from here, just me, just you. I’m it, Sam. I’m it._

Which was how Sam knew that he was losing it now. The world was fading in and out like a bad radio station, he kept losing time and he could see the blood around the chair he was tied to, too much, too much.

“Where’s my brother,” Dean said, implacable and determined, and his expression was all twisted up because he hated what he was doing, hated what Sam was making him do because this was his fault, it was all his fault, everything always and Dean shouldn’t have to, Dean shouldn’t- “ _Tell me-_ ”

“Dean,” said Sam. His mouth was full of blood. He tried to spit it out and ended up dribbling it down his chin. “Dean, please. Stop.” It slips out, without meaning to. _Dean, please. Help me._ “You’re killing me.”

He’d said the wrong thing. Sam knew it the moment it was out, but it was out and there was nothing he could do as rage flared up white hot in Dean’s eyes and Sam was too busy focusing on that to catch the movement of the knife slicing into him and then it’s burning cold steel-pain _inside_ and God, oh God, oh

it hurts Dean make it stop it hurts please

and then Dean was looking at him wide-eyed, phone to his ear, and Sam could see it in his eyes. _No,_ he thought, desperately. _No. Don’t let him figure it out. Let him think-_

But it’s too late. “Sammy,” Dean said, soft and desperate and horrified, and no it’s not supposed to end like this it’s not (it’s not, this was how it ended in Hell, this isn’t Hell, it’s supposed to be different) and Dean’s hands fluttered over his body, cupped his face, smeared blood in streaks.

“Easy, Sam, easy,” Dean was saying, fumbling at the ropes, and then he wrapped his arms around Sam and tried to pull him away from the chair and _oh no stop Dean Dean Dean-_

Blink. He’s lying on his back and Dean looked like he didn’t know where to start, like his world was falling apart and he was trying to hold it together but didn’t have enough hands, and Sam hated that he knew exactly how that looked. “Dean,” he said, trying to work out what to say to make this all right, _I’m not Sam,_ he thought, but Dean would know, he would know. “Dean. Are you okay?” Because Dean had to know that Sam didn’t _blame_ him, that he _understood._

Dean looked like he was going to throw up. He was dialing some number, probably an ambulance. “Just relax, just stay still,” Dean said, voice rough and desperate and edged. “You’ll be okay, Sam, you’ll be okay,” and no, not really, he won’t. Sam couldn’t keep his head up. Lucifer was waiting for him downstairs, welcoming and familiar and Sam wished he wasn’t, wished he could-

Wished they had more _time._ But Dean. Dean has to. Dean had to be okay.

“Don’t be mad at yourself,” he forced out, and Dean’s expression twisted and knotted and his hand slid into Sam’s hair and rested comfortably there.

“I won’t have to be mad if you’d just be okay,” Dean said, and Sam wished he could still smile. Wished he could stay. Wished.

_Please be okay, Dean. Please._

(It’s a futile hope. Dean will never . Ever forgive himself. Not this. Sam should have tried harder. He should have worked it out sooner. He should have. No use now.)

He fixed his eyes on Dean’s face. Needed it to be the last thing he saw. Needed it to last forever. That was how you got through dreams (through Hell) by remembering that when you woke up-

The world was bleeding its color. Soon.

“Sammy,” Dean said, voice breaking. “Sammy, come on. Stay with me. Just a little longer. Sam.”

_I’m sorry,_ Sam thought, _I was never good enough._

Dean was the last spot of light in the world. He always was.


End file.
